


Lycanthrophobia

by LadySlytherin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bestiality, Dubious Consent, Knotting, M/M, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:05:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySlytherin/pseuds/LadySlytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lycanthrophobia - the fear of being turned into a werewolf.</p><p>Lycanthrophobia is Draco Malfoy’s biggest fear. He cannot bear the thought of becoming a monster; an animal. It is what can paralyze him with terror. It is what his worst nightmares are about. It is the thing that wakes him up - shivering, sweating, and screaming - in the dead of night. It is the one thing that he is more afraid of than everything else combined.</p><p>But on a cold December night Draco will learn that being turned is far from the worst thing a werewolf can do to you, and that what he should have feared all along was being claimed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lycanthrophobia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Courtney Rutherford](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Courtney+Rutherford).



Draco huffed out an annoyed breath. It fogged the air in front of him in a little cloud and he crossed his eyes to watch it as it faded into nothing. The half-mask on his face was sticking to his skin; the heat from the ballroom had made him sweaty and flushed, which wasn’t something he enjoyed in the slightest. As he wandered further across the Manor’s grounds, he wondered why his parents insisted on holding a Masquerade this year, with the War at its pinnacle.  
  
It seemed silly and pretentious to Draco. But then, appearances were everything to Lucius and Narcissa, which was something Draco knew well-enough. And, as it was almost Christmas (it was coming up on midnight, so it was actually nearly December 14th, in fact), his parents were throwing their annual Yule Masque. As though there weren’t people dying every day. As though students weren’t being tortured at Hogwarts. As though everything was the same as it had been every other year for as long as Draco could remember. Which it _wasn’t_. Not at all.  
  
The chilly air was starting to get to him, but Draco didn’t want to return to the party. He briskly rubbed his palms against his thighs, wishing his black domino cape were his fur-lined cloak instead. He ought to have worn an actual costume; something warm, preferably. Instead he’d just pulled on a dressy, ruffled shirt in white silk and black leather trousers and black dragonhide boots, topped off with the satin cape and the half-mask now freezing to his face as his sweat crystallized in the frigid air. Not practical for being outside in the slightest. But then, he shouldn’t _be_ outside. He _should_ be in the ballroom, sweating as he waltzed his mother’s friends around in circles and struggled not to gag on their cloying perfume.  
  
Puffing out another misty breath, Draco continued down the path, unsure why he was heading where he was heading. Perhaps it was all of the deaths. Perhaps it was winter melancholy. Or perhaps it was just the fact that he often wondered how everything would be different if Snape hadn’t saved him from Potter’s curse the year before. Unconsciously, Draco’s hand pressed against his heart and he rubbed the heel of his hand absently over the worst of the scars left by Potter’s careless spellcasting. Draco paused just outside the cast iron gate that barred his way, trying to decide if he should continue or head back.  
  
It was the thought of his cackling Aunt Bellatrix and the way she sometimes looked at him - as though she were wondering what his blood would look like splashed across the walls - that had him pushing the gate open. Anything was better than being in the same room as her, after all. Draco ignored the screeched-protest made by the hinges and stepped from gravel onto a dirt pathway. He walked slowly now; almost cautiously.  
  
There was something about the tip-tilted headstones that made him wary; as though perhaps they had got that way because the occupants of the graves had shifted positions when no one was looking, upsetting the neat-and-tidy rows of stones. Which was ridiculous, of course; the bodies buried here were nothing but empty shells and they certainly weren’t moving about. A fair lot of them were only bones by now, in fact, as they’d been there for hundreds of years. _Nothing_ was moving about in the graveyard but Draco himself. It was a childish fear; a residual shiver left over from a long-ago belief, dreamed up when he was too young to know any better. Still, it was hard to shake the tickle between his shoulder blades that made him want to run.  
  
Curling his hands into fists, Draco forced himself to keep walking. He kept his eyes on the small hill just a little ways up the path, with a bare-limbed, twisted tree atop it. That was his goal. He ignored the short rows of his ancestors, not wishing to spare them any time. He reached his goal swiftly and curled himself around his knees on the brittle, dead grass beneath the dark, naked branches of the tree. Draco pressed his back against the gnarled bark of the tree’s trunk and let his eyes shift restlessly over the Manor’s little graveyard.  
  
He had never understood why, but this place drew him. Draco knew it was strange, especially considering how creepy and unsettling he found the rows of dead to be, but he liked being there anyway. It was quiet and unrestrictive. No one here was going to judge him if he lost control or was less-than-perfect. No one here cared if his hair was mussed or if his clothing became dirty or wrinkled. No one here cared about anything anymore, least of all about him. And Draco found that to be perfectly lovely after so much time spent struggling to be everything everyone expected him to be.  
  
Draco closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the tree, allowing his arms to drape loosely around the knees he’d drawn up to his chest. He listened as the wind howled eerily across the grounds, whistling between the stone markers and causing the branches above him to creak and groan. He felt the chill seep into his bones from the air and the ground and the tree at his back, causing his skin to prickle with goosebumps. He could smell the frost on the dying blades of grass and the ice-cold burn in the air that meant snow was coming and the faint hint of smoke from the Manor’s many fireplaces.  
  
Draco breathed deeply through his mouth, relishing the way the cold air bit into his lungs like icicles. Winter was his favorite season, though he couldn’t have said why. He blinked open his silver eyes and turned his head cautiously when he heard the crunch of footfalls on frost-coated grass. Curled up as he was in the shadow of the twisted old tree, Draco knew he wouldn’t be immediately visible to anyone approaching unless he made a sudden movement to attract attention to himself. Especially as the moon had not yet risen and the stars were half-hidden by intermittent clouds that were threatening snow. Draco was curious as to who would be wandering into the Manor’s graveyard at this time of night during a party, but he didn’t want to be seen.  
  
Draco hadn’t counted on the fact that the person now sharing the graveyard’s quiet with him could see perfectly well in the dark. Nor had he counted on the fact that said-person could also _smell_ him. And hear his heartbeat. They could, in fact, hear his every breath. Of course, Draco had no reason to suspect that any of those things would be true. After all, he wasn’t expecting _anyone_ to be out-and-about in his family’s graveyard, let alone someone capable of all of that.  
  
As he cautiously peered around the trunk of the tree, Draco was startled by the low, rasping voice that greeted him. “Well, if it isn’t little Draco. I wouldn’t have expected to find _you_ wandering about in a cemetery. Even if it _is_ your family buried here.”  
  
Draco swallowed past the lump in his throat and curled his fingers around the handle of his wand, though it didn’t do much to make him feel safer. “Greyback.” Draco greeted the werewolf, in a voice as cool and level as he could manage when every part of him wanted to shake like a leaf in a storm. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Parties like that aren’t exactly my style.” Fenrir let out a sharp bark of laughter that nearly had Draco whimpering; he had an extreme fear of all werewolves, but Fenrir Greyback was the worst of the worst and _everyone_ knew it. “Your parents sure do know how to go all-out, don’t they? I certainly didn’t expect to find _you_ out here, though.” Teeth flashed in the dim starlight as the werewolf smiled dangerously. “Shouldn’t you be inside, dancing with some insipid, inbred hag or other?”  
  
“Shouldn’t you be gnawing on a ham bone or something, wolf?” Draco snapped angrily as he pushed himself to his feet and straightened his clothes with brisk movements, attempting to hide his fear. “You’ve no right or reason to be here. Leave off.”  
  
Before Draco could even manage a gasp, Fenrir had slammed him up against the trunk of the tree. The deep, wet-sounding snarl had Draco crying out in fear, even as his head connected with the unyielding wood. Pain blossomed along the back of his skull and black crept into the edges of his vision. Dimly, Draco noted that there was a hand pressing against his throat, making it hard for him to breathe. The werewolf’s other hand had encircled Draco’s wrist, his nails digging into the tender skin. The sharp points of pain had Draco’s fingers spasming, releasing his wand even as he cried out again.  
  
“Stop it!” Draco couldn’t keep the words from bubbling up as the hawthorn-and-unicorn-hair wand slipped from his grasp, leaving him defenseless. “Let me go, wolf, this instant! _Let me go!”_  
  
Fenrir snarled again and the sound wasn’t any less terrifying the second time around. “You might want to consider being a bit politer to me, _Draco_ , considering I’m the one of us whose stronger just at the moment. Commands won’t get you very far with me. I’m not some common _dog_ to be ordered about.”  
  
Draco cringed backwards as far as he could, which wasn’t very far at all; the rough bark bit into his back through the thin materials of his shirt and cape. “Please...” The word spilled from his lips before he could stop it and Draco found he couldn’t regret it. Even begging was preferable to being at the mercy of a werewolf. “ _Please_ let me go...”  
  
Fenrir laughed again and the sound was low and rasping, like his voice; a far darker sound than the short, sharp bark of laughter he’d let out earlier. “And why should I?” He taunted, leaning down a bit so his blue eyes were level with Draco’s silver ones. The only thing preventing their foreheads from touching was the thin satin material of Draco’s half-mask. “There’s no one here to make me, after all.”  
  
Draco felt slightly nauseated and a little dizzy; his head was swimming and he was beginning to think he might have a concussion. He licked his lips to moisten them but, since his mouth felt as dry as sawdust, it didn’t help much. When he spoke, his voice came out hoarse. “What do you want, then?”  
  
Another low, rasping laugh and then the hand at Draco’s throat was shifting. It slid up through Draco’s hair, causing the Slytherin teen to whimper in distress and try to shift away from the touch. When Fenrir’s nails scraped over the wound Draco had suspected was there, he couldn’t help the small cry of pain that left his mouth. Darkness licked at the edges of his vision once more as the pain lanced through his skull and radiated down his spine, making his knees go weak. Draco could feel his legs giving out underneath him, but could do nothing to stop it from happening.  
  
There was a low growl, then Draco blinked rapidly to clear his vision. He could feel an arm around his waist, supporting his weight and holding him up. When he finally managed to focus, he wondered just how hard he’d hit his head. Fenrir was studying him strangely and those long, practically-clawed fingers were probing at the back of his skull, but almost gently. Which didn’t fit at all with anything Draco knew about the werewolf. Just as he was beginning to question his own sanity, something shifted in those wild blue eyes; something dark and dangerous and utterly terrifying.  
  
Fenrir’s fingers pressed against the wound more firmly and Draco screamed, his back arching as he tried to escape the painful touch. His vision wavered once more and the only thing that kept him from sinking to the ground was the werewolf’s iron grip on his waist.  
  
“Stop!” Draco sobbed, tears burning the backs of his eyes as he struggled to keep them from falling. “Please, stop it!”  
  
Fenrir growled again and brought his hand away from Draco’s head. His fingers glistened darkly, wet with Draco’s blood, and the teen whimpered at the sight of it. Suddenly his head throbbed much worse. His breathing sped up as the werewolf brought his bloody fingers up to his face and inhaled deeply through his nose. Then Fenrir’s tongue came out, licking his fingers clean in a matter of moments, and Draco felt iron bands of fear constricting his chest.  
  
When the werewolf grinned at him, there were faint traces of blood on his lips and teeth. His voice seemed even more menacing when he spoke. “You taste divine, you know.” Fenrir leaned in closer and added darkly. “Makes me hungry for a bigger taste.”  
  
Draco squeezed his eyes shut against the sight of Fenrir’s face, twisted with lust and hunger, and struggled to breathe enough to speak; to beg. “Please don’t hurt me... _please_...”  
  
“Oh, I can’t promise that.” Fenrir laughed, sounding delightfully amused. “But I’ve got a feeling you’ll enjoy this more than you think.”  
  
Draco opened his mouth to demand an explanation for that cryptic remark at the same time he felt lips on his throat. Instead of words, a strangled gasp escaped. His eyes flew open even as the mouth moved away and then fingers were tugging his half-mask off his face. And even though it was nothing more than a simple scrap of black satin, Draco felt suddenly naked and exposed. It was highly disconcerting, as was the way he was being looked at.  
  
“What...what are you doing?” Draco’s voice quivered and the question came out far weaker than he’d intended.  
  
Fenrir’s lips pressed against his jaw, then the werewolf’s tongue flicked out to taste the soft skin at the spot where jaw met neck. “Tasting my prey.” He growled in Draco’s ear and somehow it came out both sinister and promising.  
  
Draco whimpered. “S-stop...” It came out weak and breathless and not-at-all like the forceful command he’d intended it to be. Though the thought of a werewolf’s teeth that close to him was utterly terrifying, the feel of a warm, wet tongue on his skin was sinfully good.  
  
“Did you say _stop?”_ Fenrir chuckled into his ear before licking a line from just behind Draco’s ear down to his collarbone. He suckled on the skin there, then grinned when Draco let out a soft whine and taunted. “ _That_ didn’t sound like a no...”  
  
When teeth bit down - firmly, but no where near hard enough to break skin - on his collarbone, Draco couldn’t stop the high, keening sound that left his mouth. His back arched and his hands pressed against the rough surface of the tree behind him; he could feel the bark digging into his palms and the small points of pain blurred together with the sudden rush of heated pleasure. He opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed and was startled to realize Fenrir’s face was barely an inch away from his own. Fear made his stomach twist into knots, but the heady thrum of desire was quickly overwhelming it.  
  
Draco swallowed hard, torn between the two emotions. Then, grabbing hold of the one he hoped wouldn’t result in him being found dead come morning, he whispered. “That’s because it _wasn’t_ a no at all...”  
  
Fenrir stared at him for a brief moment, then a grin spread across his face and he threw back his head, letting out an eerie howl. The sound made Draco cringe away. “Please don’t do that...” His voice was a barely-there whisper of sound. “I don’t...I don’t like that...that’s you’re a...”  
  
Fenrir’s smile dropping in an instant and he used his body to press Draco harder against the tree. “Don’t like that I’m a what, _Draco?_ A werewolf? An _animal?_ Well, that’s just too bad for you, isn’t it? I am what I am, after all, and I don’t give a _fuck_ if you like it or not.”  
  
Draco turned his face to the side, trying to create some measure of space between himself and the older man. “I...I can’t...you...I...” Draco’s breaths were once again coming in sharp, rapid bursts and he could feel the fear closing his throat. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth and he couldn’t seem to make it wrap around the words his mind was screaming, about danger and blood and things worse-than-death.  
  
Fenrir could smell the sheer terror radiating off of Draco and it intoxicated him. Combined with the smell of the boy’s blood and the taste of it still lingering on his tongue, it was far too much for him to resist. Not that he was planning on _trying_ to resist; Fenrir had stopped denying himself things he wanted years ago. And he definitely wanted Draco Malfoy. The way the boy trembled and cringed away just made him want to get closer.  
  
Draco cried out once again - in fear _and_ pain - when he felt Fenrir’s long-nailed hand fist in his hair. Fenrir stepped back and used the platinum-blonde locks to drag Draco away from the tree. He ignored it when Draco screamed; he knew his grip was tight and that he was probably aggravating the boy’s injury. He simply didn’t care. He also ignored it when Draco’s hands came up and pulled futilely on his arm; Fenrir was far stronger than Draco and he had no intention of letting the boy go before he was good and ready.  
  
With a forceful shove, Fenrir released Draco’s hair, sending the blonde tumbling to the ground. Draco landed hard on his side and quickly rolled onto his stomach, pushing up onto his hands and knees. He struggled to scramble away from the werewolf, fear making him clumsy. It didn’t help that his cape had wrapped itself around him as he fell; it was hindering him greatly. Draco sobbed when he heard Fenrir’s vicious laughter from above him; he should have known he couldn’t trust a savage creature like Fenrir not to hurt him.  
  
Fenrir’s booted foot pressed down on the small of Draco’s back, forcing him to the ground on his belly. Draco cried out again, his hands and feet digging into the ground, desperately seeking purchase. The pressure on his back lifted and Draco made a small, high keening sound of relief as he managed to wiggle forward a few inches. Then a cruel hand caught the material of his cape and tugged. He was dragged backwards a bit, to the sound of rasping laughter, before the cape ripped and the material was tossed away.  
  
“Please...” Draco sobbed as he pushed up onto his hands and knees again and began to crawl towards the little dirt path that would take him back to the safety of the Manor. “Please, just let me go...”  
  
A hand closed around his calf, just below his knee, and sharp nails dug into his leg through the leather of his trousers. “I don’t think so, little boy.” He could feel Fenrir hovering just above him; the weight and heat and power of the other man was overwhelming. Fenrir leaned in closer and his chest pressed against Draco’s back as the man growled in his ear. “Who’s afraid of the big, bad wolf?”  
  
“Don’t!” The word came out choked, but Draco couldn’t seem to gain control of his own voice. “I just want to go home...please, don’t hurt me...”  
  
Draco could feel the tears on his own cheeks; the wetness was so cold it nearly burned in the frigid air of the cemetery. He could hear the excited cadence to Fenrir’s breathing even as the hot, slightly-damp breaths moved over the back of his neck and his cheek. And when the hand that had grasped his calf slid up his leg to his waist, every muscle in Draco’s body tensed. He didn’t know what he was more afraid of - what Fenrir was, or what it seemed the werewolf intended to do to him. All Draco knew for certain was that he was more terrified than he had ever been before.  
  
The hand at Draco’s waist slid to the small of his back even as Fenrir straightened up. Draco squeezed his eyes shut and braced his body, preparing to bolt as fast as he could the second he had a chance. But that hand fisted in the waistband of his trousers and there was a soft hiss of sound. And that soft hiss could only be one thing. It was the sound of metal against leather and it meant Fenrir had drawn a blade of some sort.  
  
When Draco felt the press of cold steel against the small of his back, he couldn’t help the whimper that escaped. He dropped his weight from his hands to his elbows and then lowered his head, burying his face in his forearms and praying the werewolf would just kill him quickly. Draco really didn’t think he had the sort of nature that would handle any form of pain or torture well. And he’d rather that belief wasn’t proven right any time soon. Or ever, if it came right down to it.  
  
Fenrir admired the curve of Draco’s back as the boy lowered his head, unintentionally presenting his ass. Fenrir admired the curve of that - hugged as it was by tight black leather - for a moment, then went back to what he’d been doing. He slipped the slim blade of his dagger under the edge of Draco’s waistband and pulled upwards, cutting the supple fabric easily. He ignored the thin line of blood welling in the shallow cut the dagger had left on Draco’s skin; he’d see to that once he’d dealt with the boy’s clothing.  
  
Tossing the dagger into the grass, within arm’s length, Fenrir then gripped the fabric on either side of the tear. He pulled and the leather shredded under his hands as though it were tissue paper. The feral grin that curved his lips would have likely made Draco scream, had the boy bothered to look. Instead, Draco just pressed his face harder against his arms and let out a choked sob, shudders wracking his lithe frame.  
  
Fenrir licked his lips, then swiftly ripped the thin, silk shirt up the center of Draco’s back, baring the elegant line of the Malfoy heir’s spine. Dipping his head down, he dragged his tongue over the cut he’d made in that alabaster skin. The coppery tang of blood exploded over his taste buds as he licked from the small of Draco’s back to the point where Draco’s ass began to curve. There was an intriguing dip there that Fenrir nipped at, delighting in the way Draco cried out in terror when he felt the werewolf’s teeth.  
  
Fenrir growled as he straightened back up. From his position on his knees beside Draco, he could easily look his fill of the pale, slim teenage boy. Fenrir’s blue eyes shifted to Draco’s platinum hair, which was matted, dark and sticky with blood, just below the crown of his head. It made the werewolf’s mouth water; everything in him was urging him to just rip the teen to shreds and feast. But then, considering how close moonrise was, that wasn’t surprising. Ignoring the urge for the moment in favor of other - more human - desires, he let his eyes move down, over the nape of Draco’s neck to where his shoulders were.  
  
The muscles in Draco’s arms were bunching and shifting restlessly under the silk tatters of his shirt as the boy sobbed, keeping his face hidden from Fenrir’s view. Not that it mattered much; Fenrir knew precisely what those sharp, haughty features looked like, after all. That intense gaze moved over Draco’s arched back, admiring the way his ass was thrust up into the air. The boy was the perfect picture of submission, whether he knew it or not.  
  
Growling low in his throat, Fenrir moved so he was behind the boy. He pushed his way between Draco’s booted feet, forcing the blonde to spread his legs. The harsh, panicked sound of Draco’s breathing excited Fenrir further. He growled again as he admired the way the shredded remains of Draco’s leather trousers framed the teen’s trembling thighs and pert, quivering ass. Fenrir roughly palmed those delightful curves, squeezing harshly when Draco tried to jerk away from his touch.  
  
“Go ahead and fight me.” Fenrir jeered, squeezing again just for the pleasure of hearing Draco whimper in pain and fear. “It’s no skin off my teeth if you make this harder on yourself.”  
  
Fenrir’s cruel laughter masked the sound of his zipper being undone, so Draco had no chance to brace himself. One moment the rough, greedy hands of Fenrir were on his ass and then they were gone. And within a heartbeat’s time, he felt something hot and heavy pressing intimately against him, in a place no one had ever _dared_ to touch Draco before. And Draco’s eyes flew open because as much as he’d known what it meant when Fenrir began to rip his clothing off of him, he hadn’t really been prepared for this to happen.  
  
“No, don’t!” Draco cried out, lifting his head slightly and turning it to look over his shoulder with wide, terrified silver eyes. “Please...”  
  
Fenrir met his eyes, blue-to-silver, and seemed to hesitate. Just as Draco opened his mouth to plead again, Fenrir slammed his hips forward, driving into Draco’s hot, tight body. Draco screamed, throwing his head back and arching his spine almost impossibly-far as he struggled to adjust to the burning, stretched sensation of being far-too-full. Fenrir groaned, gripping Draco’s hips tightly enough that he was sure the fair skin would bruise. The way Draco’s muscles were spasming around his cock was perfect, as was the way Draco had once-again lowered his head to the ground, still sobbing.  
  
Not pausing to give the teen a moment to adjust, Fenrir began to thrust. There was something utterly perfect about the way Draco’s body clung to his cock, as though reluctant to let him withdraw. And it gave so easily, despite how tight Draco was. It was as though Draco were made to be fucked. Not slowly and gently, either, but precisely like this. With hard, deep thrusts; a claiming and a taking, rather than a giving or sharing.  
  
Draco, for his part, was torn. Though it _hurt,_ in a way he could never have imagined, it was also starting to feel _good_. The burning pain of having his ass stretched to accommodate a cock was fading with every thrust as his body reluctantly adjusted to the intrusion. And every now and then, Fenrir’s cock was just-barely brushing against something that was sending strange little tingles of pleasure up Draco’s spine. With a funny, strangled little sound, Draco shifted his weight and moved his knees just a little further apart.  
  
Fenrir made a strange sound behind him - halfway between a growl and a laugh - and curled himself down over Draco’s back to taunt softly. “Are you _enjoying_ this, Draco?”  
  
Draco made another odd sound; the angle of Fenrir’s thrusts had changed and those little tingles of pleasure had changed to odd flickers of heat, licking their way up his spine and coiling tightly in his belly. “I...I...” Draco struggled to form words even as his fingers curled into the dying grass beneath him.  
  
He braced his weight more firmly on his forearms and palms, then shifted backwards slightly, pressing his hips up, meeting Fenrir’s thrusts. “Oh, _fuck...”_ The word slipped from Draco’s lips with a needy moan as something inside him sparked like lightning, sending his whole system into overdrive.  
  
“I think you _are_ enjoying this!” Fenrir’s mocking laughter didn’t phase Draco in the slightest; all he cared about was feeling that rush of heated pleasure again. When he moaned and canted his hips back, shifting his legs just a little bit further apart, the werewolf growled in his ear. “Look at you, Draco; panting and moaning for my cock like a _bitch_ in heat.”  
  
Draco shivered as Fenrir began to thrust harder, slamming into his body with almost punishing force; every thrust was causing pleasure to wash over him and the words Fenrir was growling at him only made it hotter. “Yeah, that’s just what you are, isn’t it? My _bitch_. You’d beg me for it if I told you too, wouldn’t you, Draco?”  
  
A hand fisted in his hair and jerked his head up and Draco cried out as his back was forced to arch further to accommodated the painful grip. “Yes!” He sobbed, knowing every word the werewolf was saying was true. “Please...please, I need...just...don’t stop... _fuck...”_  
  
Fenrir let go of his hair, laughing in delight at the sound of the haughty Pureblood begging _an animal_ to fuck him. “You’re a right proper slut, aren’t you?”  
  
Draco made a strangled sound as Fenrir slipped his hand underneath the boy and roughly palmed Draco’s cock. “Yeah, a right proper slut for sure. You make a perfect little bitch for me, don’t you?”  
  
Draco turned his face, burying it in his arms. His cheeks were flushed, both with pleasure and shame; he could feel the heat pouring off his skin. But not even the humiliation he felt at Fenrir’s words could stop him from spilling himself, hot and sticky and wet, over Fenrir’s fist, even as he pushed back into the thrusts that were swiftly becoming erratic.  
  
The tight, rhythmic clenching of Draco’s ass around his cock, combined with the feel of the boy’s release coating his hand, had Fenrir following him into climax almost instantly. Draco moaned at the feeling of heat and wetness coating his insides. He was still panting and shaking as Fenrir withdrew from his body so abruptly that he winced. The teen whined and pushed his ass back slightly, almost as though seeking the werewolf’s cock; the gesture helped stretch out his lower back, shoulders, and thighs.  
  
Fenrir’s fingers traced lightly over Draco’s come-and-blood-coated entrance, causing Draco’s body to jerk and another soft whine to leave his throat. He turned his head slightly and peeked back at the werewolf with one eye. “What...” His voice came out low and husky and Draco paused to clear his throat before asking quietly. “Why did you...?”  
  
Fenrir brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, his intense blue gaze locked on Draco’s face as the boy flushed and his eyes dropped; clearly the boy was embarrassed and - quite possibly - ashamed. With a chuckle, he rasped. “You do taste lovely, Draco. I can’t _wait_ to sink my teeth into all of that delicious flesh.”  
  
Draco’s position changed so fast he was a blur. One moment he was still posed submissively, blood and semen slowly inching their way down from his abused hole to smear across his creamy, trembling thighs. In the next, he was kneeling, facing Fenrir, the tattered remains of his outfit for the Ball hanging off his arms and legs. His grey eyes were wide and terrified, his whole body was shaking, and his mouth was moving soundlessly. Fenrir watched, a horrible smile curving his lips, drinking in the boy’s fear like a fine wine.  
  
“What do you mean?” Draco demanded, wishing his voice would stop shaking. “You got what you wanted! Leave me alone! Let me go!”  
  
Fenrir’s face twisted into a mockery of remorse. “Ah, sweet little thing, if only I _could!_ Believe me, you’re the most perfectly submissive little bitch I’ve ever taken and I would _love_ to keep you, but I’m afraid the choice is out of my hands.” The mournful cadence to his voice was at-odds with the hungry gleam in his azure eyes.  
  
“Why?” Draco bit his lip, dropping his eyes and feeling his face heat with shame even as he whispered brokenly. “I...I’d let you...again...if you let me go...I mean, you could, if you...if you wanted to...just...that is...just let me go...and you can...”  
  
Fenrir’s nails bit into Draco’s chin as he tipped the boy’s face up. He crushed his mouth to Draco’s and the blonde whimpered as a tongue pushed past his lips and teeth, tasting of blood and _himself_ and something wild and dangerous that Draco had no name for. When Fenrir pulled back, Draco was panting and shaking and uncertain. He had no idea what Fenrir wanted from him, or what the man might say or do next. The werewolf’s next words, however, took Draco straight from confusion into fear.  
  
“Run, Draco.” Fenrir’s low rasp of a voice wound around the words and, for a moment, they made no sense to Draco. Then the man added with a growl. “If you’re truly afraid of the big, bad wolf, then _run._ He’ll be out to play any minute now.”  
  
And Draco’s eyes flew to the dark, star-filled sky even as he cast his mind back to the moon-chart in his room. His breathing sped up even as he clumsily got to his feet. It was the full moon and moonrise was fast-approaching. Wide, silver eyes locked on Fenrir even as he began to stumble backwards, his hands clutching at the shredded pieces of his clothing as they threatened to trip him. The werewolf was watching him, but making no move to follow, and Draco had to wonder if the temptation of having him again would be enough to hold Fenrir in place long enough for him to fleeto safety.  
  
Draco glanced over his shoulder at the path leading back towards the Manor and took another step backwards, coiling his muscles to run. Then there was a loud cracking sound from Fenrir’s direction. Draco’s head snapped back around and he watched, frozen in place, as the man threw back his head and screamed in agony. There was another cracking sound and Fenrir gasped out, in a voice filled with pain. “Too late, little one. Should’ve run sooner...”  
  
Draco turned and bolted, fear making him clumsy as he followed the path that wove between the stones marking his ancestors’ graves. He tripped, landing hard on his hands and knees, but didn’t stop moving. The screams behind him had changed to deadly howls and he scrambled across the rough, frozen ground. It was so unfair that he would be ripped to shreds _here_ , of all places. Among those of his family who were already dead.  
  
He heard the sound of padded feet on dirt even as he struggled to reach the gate. If he could lock it behind him, it might slow Fenrir down enough for him to make it to the Manor. If he could just reach the party, then he’d be safe. Humiliated, obviously, since it would be obvious what he and Fenrir had done, but not _dead_. And not _changed_ , either, if he could just stay ahead of those teeth until he reached his parents.  
  
But even as his eyes locked on the half-open black wrought-iron of the gate, he could hear Fenrir drawing closer. He forced himself back to his feet and pushed his body to run. He was strong and slim and quick; that was what made him a good Seeker. But the slowest werewolf was still faster than him and his slight-lead wasn’t going to do him much good. Even knowing that, he still had to try. Briefly, Draco found himself wondering if his Father would mourn his demise. He knew his mother loved him, but Lucius Malfoy was a cold man and Draco honestly wasn’t sure if he would feel bad about his son being ripped to pieces by a werewolf.  
  
About fifty meters from the gate, Draco made a huge mistake. Hearing another howl from behind him, Draco turned his head to look over his shoulder. The moment’s distraction cost him dearly. His foot caught on a rock in the path (and really, he thought, shouldn’t it be better-tended?) and he slammed to the ground. He threw out his hands just in time to stop his face from slamming into the frozen earth, but his chest and stomach hit the ground hard and knocked the wind out of him. An instant later he heard the wolf catch up with him, and if he’d had any breath left at all Draco would have screamed.  
  
Instead, he turned his head slightly to the side, squeezing his eyes closed and pressing his face against his left upper-arm. Then he curled his forearms around his head and held his breath, just waiting for the pain to start. _‘Please let him kill me fast...’_ Draco found the thought wouldn’t leave him and it began to circle in his mind, almost like a prayer. He didn’t want to suffer; he didn’t want to scream and cry and beg for death. He just wanted this nightmare over with. Draco silently vowed to remain silent for as long as he could.  
  
Instead, he let out a terrified whimper as he felt the cold, wet nose of the werewolf brush against the back of his right knee. There was a low growl and every muscle in Draco’s body tensed in anticipation of the pain to come. Except it _didn’t_. Instead, that cold nose pressed closer to his skin, then dragged up Draco’s pale, trembling thigh. Draco began to breathe again, sucking in sharp, terrified breaths. He had no idea what the wolf was thinking; he had no idea how much of an animal the wolf was, either. But Draco had a feeling that Fenrir Greyback was _not_ the sort to take Wolfsbane.  
  
Suddenly there was the rasp of a sandpaper-rough tongue on the back of his thigh, followed by another low growl. _‘Oh Merlin, oh fuck, he’s tasting me...’_ Draco’s frantic, panicked mind supplied the thought and his breathing sped up further. _‘Please let this be over soon...’_  
  
But there was still no pain; no teeth; no death. Instead, Draco felt the cold nose leave his skin and heard as the wolf began to walk in circles around him. He could hear the wolf sniffing and suddenly that ice-cold nose was back, but this time it was in the small of his back. The teen bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut tighter as he struggled not to scream. He could feel fur against his side and in his mind he saw burning eyes and fangs dripping blood and a wolf too-large to be real.  
  
The wolf’s muzzle pressed against his spine, just there at the small of his back, and he could feel the hot, damp breath of the creature against his skin. Then the muzzle moved lower, over the curve of Draco’s ass, and Draco pressed his face harder against his arm until the bridge of his nose ached from the pressure. And then that sandpaper tongue came out again and licked along the crease of Draco's ass. Unable to hold still under such an intimate assault, Draco cried out and dropped his arms, clawing at the dirt as he tried to squirm away from the animal touching him.  
  
A low, wet-sounding snarl had Draco freezing in place, a sob building in his throat. Terrified, but unable to help himself, Draco slowly turned his head. He peered cautiously over his own shoulder. Wide, silver eyes locked on the huge wolf that was standing beside Draco's prone body. It was, indeed, larger than any wolf had a right to be. Its muzzle was also shorter and its long tail was tufted at the end like a lion’s. All signs, of course, that the animal in question was not _actually_ a wolf. It was far more dangerous than any mere canine could ever be.  
  
Its fur was the same grey-streaked chestnut brown that Fenrir’s hair was and its eyes were the same intense blue. Its lips were peeled back in another snarl and the fangs did in fact show faint remnants of blood, though they were nowhere near _dripping_. Draco thought it was likely that the blood was his own, left over from when Fenrir had been licking it off his own fingers. The thought was _not_ a comforting one; Draco didn't like the fact that this particular animal had _his_ taste in its mouth.  
  
Tears gathered in Draco's eyes as the creature growled and began to circle around him. They began to fall almost immediately and Draco’s body trembled as he struggled not to let any sound escape. It was inevitable, of course, that the sobs should escape and soon Draco had raised one hand to his face to try to stifle the sounds with his palm. The werewolf stopped circling him, though the way its nose and muzzle moved told Draco it was still sniffing, and cocked its head to the side. It seemed almost _curious_.  
  
“Please...” Draco gasped out between sobs, praying that he’d been wrong about Fenrir not taking the Wolfsbane Potion. If the monster before him was even the slightest bit human, he might be able to stir some pity in it and get away. “Please don’t hurt me... _please_...just let me go...”  
  
The wolf moved in closer in an instant, its nose pressing against Draco’s left flank for a moment as it continued sniffing. Then, as Draco watched through his tears, the animal threw back it’s head and howled. The sound was long and loud and echoed horribly through the eerily-silent graveyard. It sent shivers down Draco’s spine even as it gave him a moment’s hope. The wolf looked at the teenager for a few seconds and growled again, then threw back it’s head for another howl.  
  
Draco took the chance while he had it and pushed up to his hands and knees. But before he could shove to his feet and run, the creature was on top of him. _“No!”_ Draco sobbed as he felt teeth close around the nape of his neck.  
  
Draco froze, his head tipped down slightly so white-blonde strands of hair stuck to his tear-dampened face. The feel of those teeth pressing against either side of his neck was nearly paralyzing; Draco was afraid to _breathe_ , lest the pressure increase and the teeth break his skin, infecting him. The animal’s breath ruffled his hair slightly and its strangely-soft fur tickled the skin of his back. Claws dug into the frozen earth on either side of Draco’s hands as the wolf shifted its position without releasing its immobilizing-grip on Draco’s neck.  
  
After a long, silent moment, during which neither Draco nor the werewolf moved, Draco’s breath left his lips in a shuddering-sob. The teeth on his neck released a few seconds after and Draco’s arms gave out as his body shook while he cried. With his weight still braced on his knees, and with the creature still pinning Draco in place with its body above-and-around him, the teen folded his arms between the creature’s front legs and rested his forehead on them. Then, closing his eyes, Draco sobbed out his relief at having not been bitten and his terror over the fact that it could still happen, at any moment.  
  
Draco’s sobs stopped on a scream of pain as the werewolf above him suddenly thrust its prick inside the boy’s ass. Whatever pain and torment Draco had been expecting, this had _never_ crossed his mind. He had never even heard of a werewolf raping a human before. As another scream of pain tore itself from his throat, Draco’s mind flashed to the way the animal had been smelling and tasting him. And he realized in an instant that he must have smelled strongly of both sex and Fenrir’s human form. And in some part of the creature’s mind, it had connected the two and decided that Draco was _his_.  
  
_‘His bitch._ ’ Draco’s cruel mind taunted him. He pressed his face harder into his arms, tears flowing freely now while his whole body tensed and shook, from both shame and the agony ripping through him. _‘I’m nothing but this savage creature's bitch.'_  
  
The burning pain and the feeling of being ripped apart left Draco struggling to breath. Fenrir had been large enough to make him feel full and stretched, but the animal currently pounding him was far larger. And while Fenrir’s thrusts had been hard and deep, the animal was fucking him with a speed and ferocity that no human could have matched. Draco wanted nothing more than for this to be over; he could feel blood running - hot and wet - down his thighs and he was starting to wonder if someone could actually _die_ from being fucked too brutally.  
  
And just when he thought it couldn’t possibly get any worse, Draco was proven wrong. He felt something - something even larger than the cock currently ripping him apart - slamming against his abused hole. A terrified whine left Draco's throat. The teen didn't know what it was, but Draco was quite certain he didn't want it inside his ass. The creature on top of him began to growl and snap its teeth above his head though, and the idea of those teeth closing on his neck scared him more than the whatever-it-was that was trying to force its way inside of him.  
  
And so, with a keening sound that was part-terror and part-pain, Draco did the only thing he could think of to try to calm down the animal fucking him. He arched his back further, shifted his knees apart a few inches more, and pressed his ass back. With deep breathes, Draco struggled to force his body to stop tensing and relax. And though he wasn't sure how he managed it, it worked because suddenly he was screaming again as the wolf forced the widest part of it's massive cock inside his ass. And then the animal was howling and Draco was sobbing into his arms and searing heat was coating his insides and Draco felt even fuller than he had moments before.  
  
Then the wolf shifted suddenly and Draco was no longer being pinned to the icy ground by the thing. It was standing next to him now, though it was still rather-closer than Draco would have preferred it to be. And, most disturbingly of all, it’s _cock_ was still buried in his ass. And when Draco tried to move away, he found that he _couldn’t_. A desperate sort of terror clawed at his throat, wrapping itself around his mind, and he tried to yank himself off of the wolf’s prick. An angry-sounding snarl from the creature had him freezing and whimpering in fear; clearly he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. And so, shivering from the cold, feeling dirty and sore and ashamed, and still locked together with a werewolf via the creature’s cock up his ass, Draco Malfoy carefully rolled onto his side. He kept his back to the beast he so-feared, knowing if he had to stare into it’s eyes he just might lose his tenuous grasp on his sanity.  
  
And, with the cold wind biting into his front and warm fur just-barely brushing against his back, Draco stared - with wide, tear-filled grey eyes - across the cemetery and it’s rows-and-rows of silent dead, to the gate that had promised freedom and safety. And several broken pieces of his mind wrapped themselves around the still-sane parts and cradled them; protecting them even as they locked them away. And Draco’s breathing evened out and his eyes went blank and empty and his muscles went limp as he retreated into himself so he didn’t have to deal with any of what had just happened to him, or any of what might come next.  
  
He barely noticed when - after a fair amount of time - the cock inside him shrunk and softened and slipped out. He had no shame left to spare for the moment when the animal’s release seeped out of his battered hole and coated his skin. He had retreated into a safe corner of his mind by the time the wolf shifted close enough to bring some warmth back to his frozen body and Draco didn’t even flinch away from what had once terrified him so completely. And when the sun crept over the horizon and the creature behind him was human once more, Draco was too far away in his own mind to even notice.  
  
Fenrir looked down at the pale, ice-cold teenager. Once he’d become human again, he had quickly realized what had happened while he’d been transformed; the memories were there, though they were disjointed, non-linear, and viewed through an animalistic haze. Shrugging it off, he had walked back to where he’d changed and retrieved his wand, then Conjured himself some clothing. After dressing leisurely, he’d wandered back in the direction of the Manor. He had _not_ expected to find Draco Malfoy still lying there. Fenrir had imagined the boy would flee the instant he was out of sight, but clearly not.  
  
The werewolf crouched down and rolled Draco onto his back, watching with interest as the boy’s head lolled almost-lifelessly to one side. Those grey eyes were empty and unfocused and Fenrir’s lips curved into a delighted grin. It would seem Draco had gone catatonic. Fenrir - who delighted in upsetting people in any way he could - found himself practically giddy with prospect of returning Draco to the Manor - and his parents - in his current state.  
  
He dragged his long nails lightly down Draco’s cheek and those grey eyes flickered slightly. They focused on Fenrir’s face for a brief instant and something partway between relief and resignation flashed across that pale, pointed face before it all went blank again. _‘So,’’_ Fenrir thought as he studied Draco further, admiring the blood and semen covering his scraped and bruised skin. _‘It would seem Draco is still in there somewhere. Which means he’ll still make a perfectly lovely little bitch for me to play with.’_  
  
Having decided, Fenrir carelessly scooped Draco up into his arms, making no effort whatsoever to hide the boy’s near-nudity or to clean up the evidence of what had occurred between them. He strode calmly out of the cemetery and across the grounds to the Manor, then walked boldly inside. To be fair, he had every right to be there, since the Dark Lord was often in residence and had ordered the Malfoys to allow various-and-sundry Death Eaters the run of the place. Much to Lucius Malfoy’s displeasure, of course. He stopped in the entry hall, smirking cockily at the reactions of those gathered.  
  
Lucius Malfoy turned a greyish-green before turning his face away, his hands clenching around the cane that had once housed his wand.Bellatrix Lestrange bared her teeth in an eerie snarl, curling her fingers around her wand. And Narcissa Malfoy let out a cry of distress at the sight of her precious son in the arms of Fenrir Greyback. Draco’s costume hung from his arms and legs in tattered strips of dirty silk and leather. His head hung limply down over Fenrir’s right arm, silver eyes wide and vacant. His alabaster skin was bruised and scraped raw in some places and streaked with blood and dirt and semen. Fenrir cradled the boy close to his chest in a possessive manner, still smirking at everyone.  
  
Finally, after a long moment of tense silence, Narcissa spoke in a weak, thready voice. “He’s not...I mean, you didn’t...?”  
  
Fenrir rolled his eyes and snapped coldly. “Your son is still breathing, lady. No need to go getting all weepy.”  
  
Narcissa made a small sound of joy when Draco’s eyes flickered towards the sound her voice, but it faded into a noise of distress when his cheeks flushed with color and he curled his body slightly, turning his face into Fenrir’s chest. The werewolf grinned dangerously; it sent a twisted little thrill through him to have the boy turning to him for comfort after what had happened. Then Narcissa’s spine straightened and in a cold voice she demanded. “Did you turn him? Have you bitten Draco and made him into what you are?”  
  
Fenrir watched the way Lucius went even greener and disgust creeped across Bella’s face in satisfaction before he answered. He locked gazes with Narcissa - blue-to-grey - and rasped cruelly. “There was no need to, actually. Your boy submitted to me _before_ moonrise, so afterwards I was more interested in reclaiming him than I was in ripping him to pieces.”  
  
Narcissa’s hand flew up to her mouth to stifle a sob and Draco pressed his face closer to Fenrir’s shoulder, wishing he wasn’t slipping out of the comforting numbness of his own mind to hear all of this. Bellatrix sneered. “If the little slut was willing to spread his legs for such a base animal, you’re welcome to him, _mutt_.”  
  
“Bella!” Narcissa’s shocked outrage was met with a dismissive shrug. Fury rolling off of her in waves, Narcissa spat. “Give me my son, Greyback. And I _swear_ that if you _ever_ lay a finger on him again, I will gut you like the animal you are.”  
  
But Fenrir simple sneered and tightened his grip on the boy. “Sorry, lady, but he’s _mine_ now. I’ve got no desire to give him up.” With an almost unholy glee, he added nastily. “It’s so _rare_ to find someone so delightfully submissive and he was so incredibly tight around me...and the way he _screamed_ while I fucked him in my wolf form was perfect.” Narcissa had turned her face away again and was muffling more sobs with her hands, but Fenrir continued casually. “And the way he pushed that gorgeous little arse back and relaxed so my knot could tie us together after I filled him with my seed...”  
  
“Stop it!” Lucius spoke in a near-shout and he was trembling with fury. “Get out of my sight, Greyback, and take your whore with you!”  
  
Draco’s head snapped around at that. Disbelief scrawled across his face. “Father...” His voice was a hoarse rasp; he’d probably injured his throat while screaming the night before. But Lucius refused to even look at him, let alone acknowledge him. So Draco turned his head further and whispered brokenly. “Mother...”  
  
“I’m sorry.” Narcissa whispered in reply, her face still turned away and hidden in her hands while her shoulders shook with her sobs. “I’m sorry, Draco.”  
  
And he knew that no one would help him. He didn’t even bother beseeching his aunt; she had made her opinion clear. So he did the only thing he could; he turned to meet the vibrant blue eyes of the werewolf who’d wrecked his life. Fenrir was watching him with interest and Draco swallowed hard before whispering the only thing he could think of to say. “I suppose I really am yours now.”  
  
Fenrir’s cold, cruel laughter and the savage desire in his eyes had something snapping in Draco’s brain. A mad smile curved his lips as he looked up at his Master and decided that, on the next full moon, he’d ask to be changed.  
  
**_~ The End_**


End file.
